I saw this footage and couldn’t resist sharing it with you all. Underneath is an article written in Sports Illustrated about Diego Maradona’s primadona and hap-hazardous lifestyle, as it was at the height of his fame. Please enjoy:

This is taken from an article written in Sports Illustrated May 14th 1990, a few weeks prior to ‘Italia 90′ and is a fantastic nostalgic step into times past…

Prima Dona

AT HIS BEST, DIEGO MARADONA CAN BE AS GRACEFUL AS MICHAEL JORDAN. AT HIS WORST, HE CAN BE AS DISGRACEFUL AS JOHN McENROE. THE QUESTION IS, WHICH MARADONA WILL SHOW FOR THE WORLD CUP?

Diego Armando Maradona, who is from the backside of Buenos Aires, is the best soccer player in the world, but he is also among the worst at dealing with the world. He goes from being an ugly, prickly caterpillar to being a graceful, fluttering butterfly each time he steps onto the 110-meter pitch. When he steps off it, he devolves again into a petty little slug of a man, described by various sportswriters around the world as “indiscreet,” “flawed,” “explosive,” “vulgar,” “spoiled,” “surly,” “mercurial,” “petulant” and plain “rubbish.”

The past year has caused a growing number of soccer analysts to say “Mr. Disagreeable” is no longer so wonderful on the field, the one place where Maradona has always been at ease. He was described last winter as being “a few pounds overweight and a yard too slow” by English soccer writer Steve Tongue of The Sunday Correspondent. Tongue added that in a friendly match between Argentina and Italy in Cagliari, Sardinia, on Dec. 21, “Maradona bore as little resemblance to the dominant footballer of the eighties as his country did to reigning world champions; and although writing off sporting genius has always been a hazardous pastime, there is considerably more evidence than Thursday’s tiresome match…that the peak of his career should be located nearer to the middle of the past decade than to any date with nine as its third figure.”

Maradona is 29, and he has been beaten up in a sport that has grown increasingly violent in recent years, not only in the stands but also onfield, as teams send out the equivalent of hockey goons to shadow, harass and, if need be, injure star scorers on the opposing sides. Maradona, who is an attacking midfielder for Napoli in the Italian League as well as for Argentina’s national team, has been tripped, kicked and flat-out tackled so often that he is lucky to have two functioning legs these days. He has chronic back problems and two screws in his left ankle, the result of a vicious foul by a Spanish defender in 1983. He rarely trains the way he should, and on his 5′5″ frame every extra ounce of fat shows. Still, part of the perceived demise of this athlete is the wishful thinking of those who are sick of his capricious personality and boorish off-field demeanor.

Typically, he scoffs at his critics. “Do you want to know the truth? I’m better than in 1986,” he boasted recently, referring to the year he led Argentina to the World Cup championship, in Mexico City. “My weight’s better, my health’s better, not to mention my will to play. If I need to spell it out, I’m aiming to have another great World Cup.” Yes, Maradona has lost 20 pounds on a recent crash diet. But his regimen, which involves taking cortisone treatments, is considered risky by many doctors, and when his physician found out about it, he quit Maradona’s service.

For some veteran observers, Maradona is a symbol of all that has gone wrong with the sport of soccer. He is aloof and mercenary, whereas most great former players were supposedly kind, grateful and dedicated beyond the limits of monetary reward. Now in the fifth year of a nine-year, $23 million contract with Napoli, Maradona has enough off-field endorsements and business income to earn about $8 million a year, which makes him the highest-paid soccer player in the world. At times he appears to have no allegiance to anything except his paychecks. Instead of playing for Argentina in an important World Cup tune-up match against Scotland in Glasgow on March 28, Maradona flew to Japan to pick up a tidy $2 million for promoting a multinational company based there. Without him, Argentina had no offense and lost 1-0.

When Pelé “handed down his inheritance as the best player on earth,” wrote Jeff Powell of the London Daily Mail in a 1989 year-end column, he could never have imagined “the ugly environment or aggravating manner in which Maradona would pick up the mantle.” Maradona, some would have us believe, is not just a symptom of an ailment; he is the disease itself. And yet, in Naples, where he recently led his club team to its second Italian League title in four years, he is revered by thousands upon thousands of fans, and his likeness and number—10—are painted on countless walls. When he is at his best—dribbling impossibly between two, three, half a dozen opponents, starting and stopping like a jackrabbit, the ball magically attached to his foot, shin or knee—Maradona pleases all who see him. He has been described by the Italian journal La Gazzetta Sportiva as “bold and defiant as a Caravaggio Bacchus, vibrant as a cobra, tender of movement, elegant, a beautiful mortal.”

Because he improves the performance of his teammates, Maradona gets a pass from most of them for his flighty behavior. “Maradona can do 100 good things, but as soon as he does one bad thing, everybody jumps on him,” says José Luis Brown, the sweeper for Argentina who played on the 1986 World Cup team. “The truth is that Maradona is a great person. You will never find his teammates speaking bad of him, because we know him as a person as well as a player. We know what he is like inside.”

If no one else knows, so be it. Folks who are right out on the edge aren’t always easy for the rest of us to fathom. A great, troubled athlete can always claim that he is simply misunderstood by the public. Certainly it is hard to understand how a man who claims he is sick of publicity can appear in the Italian weekly magazine 7 wearing a wreath of fern leaves on his head and a bikini in one shot and relaxing under a beauty salon hair dryer in another, as Maradona recently did.

Maradona’s Argentine teammate Jorge Valdano acknowledges that the star has made some p.r. mistakes. “But who hasn’t?” he asks. “And just because he’s Maradona, small things become gigantic things and are reported in the world’s newspapers.”

This undeniably is true. When Maradona said in December that the 1990 World Cup draw was rigged, the news traveled around the globe faster than a space shuttle. Likewise, when he chartered an Aerolineas Argentinas Boeing 747 and flew a few hundred friends from Rome to Buenos Aires for his million-dollar wedding last November in that inflation-wracked country, it made the gossip sheets everywhere. No one will deny that Maradona is whimsical, emotional and naive. Even he will admit as much. “If at times I get angry or I complain, it’s because I don’t know how to keep my feelings quiet,” he says. “And I don’t want to learn.”     …….Continue Reading Article…

Part of the reason for the ugliness of adults, in a child’s eyes, is that the child is usually looking upwards, and few faces are at their best when seen from below.

- George Orwell, ‘Such, Such were the joys’

On a wet and windy evening, two old adversaries went at each other, tooth and nail, in the romantic backdrop of Cagliari. Packie Bonner (whom I met recently) punts the ball down field with familiar gusto, his arms flailing involuntarily as he goes to ground; a ritual resembling something half-way between a swallow dive and a convulsion. A slightly perturbed Bobby Robson looks on disdainfully from his dugout, rooted to his seat. Big Jack looms increasingly obstreperous on the touchline, sensing a comeback. The ball; aimed towards the human tower that is Tony Cascarino, not for the first time, is met by Butcher, but it drops to Sheedy, who never really gets hold of it and it runs on to 2^ndhalf substitute McMahon. Macca CAN’T control as Sheedy seizes on his hesitance and fires an unstoppable trademark left foot shot past an aging Shilton. Jack’s intuition was right, Bobby’s hunch fully warranted. The Irish were back in it, and everyone, including my father, went wild.

Packie Bonner; big hands, big kicks, big saves for Ireland.

Look at the Irish. They sing and none of them know the words. Jack sings, and all he knows is ‘Blaydon Races’ and ‘Cushy Butterfield’. But look at the pride they have in those green shirts

-Lawrie McMenemy

It was blatantly obvious how much it meant to everyone connected with the Irish national team, and against England it showed. Both England and Ireland would go on to taste unprecedented success during ‘Italia 90′; the Irish reaching the quarters (their best ever performance in a World Cup), England coming within a whisker of the final. It was deemed the most negative, cynical tournaments of them all (due to its lowest ever goal tally & most games decided on the unjustly penalty shoot-out), yet, both nations captured the hearts and imaginations of millions across the globe. The joy and happiness which transpired from their performances and merits is immeasurable, the exploits of both teams in Italy, who at the time were highly criticized in the press, will never be forgotten.

In light of recent events at Stoke City, and antipathy they’ve been faced with, I took a retrospective glance at football, to gain some much needed perspective on the whole ‘winning ugly’ versus ‘attractive football’ debate. 

In so many ways, Stoke remind me of Big Jack’s Republic of Ireland during ‘Italia 90′; whose much scrutinized long ball tactics, brought them unfathomable successes, exulting Jack Charlton to national treasure status here in Ireland. If stories are to be believed, his popularity is such, he has the freedom of this beauteous country; fishing, golfing, and drinking for nowt, in some of the finest spots it has to offer (What was Paul Jewell thinking?).

Big Jack was a born winner, with England and with Ireland

Allegedly, since taking the Irish job, the canny Northumberlander has yet to meet the price of a pint, as publicans nationwide wouldn’t hear of charging the great man. The endless yarns, of how Jack endeared himself to the Irish, you never tire of hearing, the stories, have now become stuff of legend. It is widely perceived, at the height of his fame, Jackie would offer to buy the whole pub a round of drinks, insisting he paid by cheque, knowing full well it would never be cashed, and that it would be framed and hung on the wall; where it still hangs till this day.  

There is no doubt Charlton was and is a man of extraordinary character, and his idiosyncrasies sat well with the Irish public. But what Jack Charlton did for Irish football, in terms of achievement, cannot be underestimated, as he took football from the dark depths and relative obscurity of the back pages, and shoved it firmly into the forefront of the nation’s psyche.

Pulis and Stoke City (better known for their participation in petty lower league football violence in recent years) are going about achieving something similar. And I have to say, despite my grievances in the past, as long as we are competitive in the top division, I couldn’t give a monkey’s whether we play pretty football or not. Even if it means no chances in an away trip to Wigan, and subsequently, we get shown last each week on Match of the Day 2; a result, as Steve McLaren so eloquently pointed out recently, certainly is a result (well done for enlightening us all Steve).

In the current financial climate, needs must, and what is best for this club and its people indubitably takes precedence over anything else. Yes, Stoke City are bringing out the utilitarian in me, just as Big Jack did in so many of us, all those years ago. If Delap’s throw is to be judged by the happiness generated by its outcome, then there is no question of its value to the modern world of football.

Ricardo Fuller has become Stoke's main attacking outlet

As a writer from the Daily Express expertly put it, he did not enjoy seeing the kind of football Stoke are currently producing, nevertheless, he wishes they stay in this division for years to come, and be able to buy the kind of players capable of producing some quality and innovative attacking football. I think his sentiments are echoed by most of us. But we can only play with what is in our armoury; and a decent goalkeeper, 4 dogged centre-halves (camped on the edge of our own penalty box), 4 strong defensive and combative central midfielders (sitting just in front of our defenders), a big strong defensive-minded attacker (playing anywhere other than attack), and Ricardo Fuller, is, unfortunately, what we’ve got. Throw Delap into the mix, and so far, this impenetrable approach, seems to be working.

It is well documented that Big Jack’s Ireland relied heavily on their physical weaponry, yet - Dunphy aside - they received nothing but praise and admiration. They put the balls into the channels, passes were never made in field (in case of interception & vulnerability to the counter-attack), and he infamously favoured great lumps of men both in defence and in attack.  Fancy football mattered little to Jackie, and to say he liked his players getting stuck in is litotes at its finest (listening to Aldridge describe how he went all out to cripple Romanian genius Hagi for ‘the lads’, knowing an injury had cut short his own involvement, is shamelessly hilarious). If fouling was for the good of the team, then Jack saw nothing wrong with it.

Not only was Jack Charlton a man of immense personality, but he was also a born winner, both as a player and as a manager. But as a manager, like Pulis, he was a pragmatist and his teams rarely gave away soft goals. In fact, he claims, when his first choice centre-back pairing of Mick McCarthy and Kevin Moran played together, his side never conceded from a set-piece or header.

Big Jack's Ireland conceded little whilst McCarthy & Moran were on the field

Ireland only scored one more goal from open play after that thunderbolt from Sheedy, and Quinny’s goal (Watch This) versus the Dutch couldn’t possibly have been more route-one. Yet, their run in the tournament did more for the popularity of soccer in Ireland than anything before or since, and elevated Charlton and his players to iconic status in football. Pulis and his troops should be vaunted likewise.

My point is, if you are successful, nobody cares how you go about it. Furthermore, nobody remembers teams who play great football and win nothing. Crewe have always played good football, so does every team in Holland (apart from FC Twente, despite McLaren’s best efforts to acclimatize - Watch This) and of course there’s Wenger’s latest crop at Arsenal, whom in spite of playing some sumptuous football at times, will be regular nobodies if they don’t win something.

The great Argentine footballer and philosopher, Jorge Valdano, suggests football is a metaphor for the time and place you are playing in. He who does not agree with the evolution of football does not believe in the evolution of the world. Many see the way Stoke play as counter-productive and stagnant, but for me, they reflect an increasingly cautious society now in consolidation. We are not all as fortunate as the Arsenals of this world and we have to play with the tools we’ve been given. In the words of Aristotle; the best choice, for each individual is the highest it is possible for him to achieve. Stoke are doing just that, and in the process, they are restoring pride and harmony to the much-suffered place they call the Potteries.

The happiness ‘Italia 90′ aroused in me cannot be articulated. The effervescent memories it evokes are incomparable. If Stoke come within an iota of stirring up such intangible emotion, bringing happiness into the lives of thousands, even if they do play route-one football, then who is to be begrudging of that?

Jackie likes Ireland, likes its people, likes Guinness, likes fishing.

If Pulis needs ridding of his compunction, seeks assurances that his tactics are justified, then, he needn’t look further than ‘Big Jack’ and his Republic. And when he locates him, in the serenity of his Irish retreat; eating freshly caught trout on the banks of a scenic lough, supping on a creamy, ultimately free, pint of Guinness, then I think he will have found his answer.

1. Gordon Banks (Goalkeeper) 

Gordon Banks produces the greatest save of all time from Pelé of Brazil

Widely considered by his colleagues to be the best of all time. He was certainly the best goalie ever to grace the English League. Banks demoralised strikers all over the world, as they watched him claw out, otherwise certain goals. His cat-like agility has never been matched. 

Not massive, he was a superb shot stopper, had great hands (mostly without gloves!) and came out of goal faster than a speeding bullet. ‘That save’(pictured above) from Pelé, when Pelé had already shouted goal; his world cup winning performances in ‘66′; and his League Cup victory with his beloved Stoke City in 72; will never be forgotten.

What people often overlook, is that Bank’s career was cut short whilst still in its prime. A car crash shortly after that Stoke cup victory damaged his retina, forcing him to retire prematurely. He’d recently been awarded the FA’s prestigious ‘Player of the Year’ award and had many years left in him. Who knows what he would’vegone onto achieve? Nevertheless, Banks went out at the very top, and will always be remembered as the best there ever was. 

2. Jimmy Armfield (Right-back)

Jimmy Armfield of England goes up against Garrincha of Brazil in 1962

Again, very highly thought of throughout the football world and among his fellow professionals. This tenacious, tough tackling right back was extremely quick and possessed a thunderbolt shot. Captained England before being succeeded by Moore, he spent 17 years with Blackpool, playing alongside both Matthews and Alan Ball. This loyalty was typical of the man, an evergreen model professional.

He was voted in the best team in the world by a Chilean newspaper, after his performances in 1962 World Cup, however, like teammate Matthews, his International career was unfortunately blighted by the war. An ever-present in the England team prior to our greatest moment, ‘66′ came a little too late for Jimmy, and this is probably the reason why he is so often overlooked when it comes to these sorts of things.

Jimmy was a wingback before they were even invented, a professional before professionals, and a gentleman among gentlemen; and he even smoked a pipe. Sorry Neville! (Gary)

3. Stuart Pearce (Left-back) 

Stuart 'Pyscho' Pearce England's most feared left-back

Equally combative and committed, ‘Psycho’, as far as left-backs go, was the best in the business. Physicaland passionate, Pearce was also great when going forward, possessing a left-peg that was lethal.

He was one of the few players who could grab the game by the scruff of the neck (not to mention a few opponents along the way!). He had that rare ability to lift and inspire his teammates, from depths of despair, to victory, and his enthusiasm was infectious. For Forest and England, Pearce was immense; marauding runs down the flank, blasting in penalties and fierce free kicks. Pearce frightened the life out of the opposition.

Educated by a certain Mr Clough, he was an influential Captain, a tremendous worker and dedicated wholeheartedly to the cause. What made Pearce stand out most, however, was his unbreakable spirit and remarkable courage (Don’t worry Stuart, Man City breaks most men!). Stepping up to score that penalty at Wembley’Euro 96′, after his miss against West Germany in 1990 (pictured above), took enormous guts, and his celebration will inspire all of us for many years to come. Stuart Pearce: football’s one and only brave-heart.  

4. Steven Gerrard (Centre midfield) 

Overwhelmingly backed on our myspace survey, Gerrard is a modern day footballer in every sense of the word, and this could not be ignored. When EFP writer - Jon Greenbank (a self confessed Evertonian)- picks him out, then you know he must be worthy of a place in this team. Liverpool are the envy of every club manager in Europe, and it has been that way for some time now.

Gerrard seems to have been blessed with the lot: Pace, power, skill, tough tackling, good in the air, pinpoint passing, a thunderous shot and has an exceptional scoring record. He represents a new breed of player and is the future of the game. He’s an all-action, never-say-die midfielder, there’s no position he cant play in, and he is idolised by a new generation of wannabe footballers.

It’s becoming customary now, for Gerrard to weigh in with a wonder goal, just when Liverpool needs it most. Cometh the hour, cometh the man. Pundit and former Red, Alan Hansen, summed it up perfectly when he stated Steven Gerrard would getinto any team in the world as no matter what position he plays in he’ll give you a ‘Man of The Match’ performance. Enough said really. 

5. Paul McGrath (Centre-half)

Paul McGrath was a player of immense natural ability

Another contentious decision. If you were lucky enough to see McGrath play then you’ll probably agree he has every right to be here. Again Paul was another who was heavily backed by fans on myspace. He’d probably also be backed by every striker who ever had the misfortune to play against him.

He’s played against the very best and come out on top. Uncompromising and intelligent, on his day Paul had the best in the world in his pocket. Yes, Ferguson got shot of him as soon as he was able, but Fergie would be the first to admit it had nothing to do with his footballing ability. Ferguson is noted in saying, McGrathwas the finest defender you’d ever see in the game but due to his reckless drinking he found him ‘unreachable’. He even offered Paul an early retirement pay off and testimonial. McGrath defiantly refused, and was sold to Aston Villa; where he would later go on to win ‘PFA Player Of The Year’ award in ‘93′, despite being increasingly dogged by troublesome knees.

Paul had everything, yet nearly threw it all away because of his now well-publicised alcohol problems. Dodgy knees constantly plagued his career and at times Paul didn’t even haveto train. However, his innate fitness and natural talent always saw him through. Heavily involved with the Irish national team, McGrathwas a crucial part of the golden era in Irish football. He showed his class in Euro 88 and again in Ireland’s world cup heroics of ‘90′ & ‘94′, putting in innumerable classy performances.

Exceptionally skillful and graceful for a centre-half, he never looked in trouble, was never intimidated, and everything came to him so naturally. It was for these reasons Paul McGrath had to be included.

(Capt.) 6. Bobby Moore (Centre-half) 

Bobby Moore was the quintessential England Captain

No team would be complete without the inclusion of Bobby Moore. This man was a colossus in every sense. No player past or present has ever looked more at home on a football pitch. Moore oozed maturity and sophistication and he shone like a beacon on the field. Not only was he a great reader of the game and a timely tackler he was also technically superb. He had vision only before seen on the continent and his passing was as good as any player ever to have graced the game.

Many will remember those iconic tackles on Pelé et al, but his finest hour undoubtedly came in 1966. If you’ve not seen this game (final Vs West Germany) in full (not bragging but Iv watched it 20 times at least!) then you certainly should. Yes, there were severalbrilliant performances on that glorious day but none finer than Bobby Moores.

Captains were Captains for a reason in those days and that day Moore put in the best Captain’s performance you’re ever likely to see. Yes, Bobby C imposed himself on the game, Nobby snapped, and Ball covered every blade of Wembley grass. Hurst even bagged a hat trick, yetMoore stood out above all of them; winning every header, spraying passes, last ditch tackles, taking free-kicks, setting up goals, mazy dribbles, Moore does it all. Amazingly, he does all this effortlessly, never appearing troubled or breaking sweat.

What stands out most about Booby Moore, is Bobby Moore himself. His technique and style were 20 years ahead of his time and without him we would never have won that tournament. For he was the linchpin, the cornerstone, the integral component, the arhcitect, the genius. Bobby Moore was England’s Captain, and quite possibly, its greatest ever player.   

7. Stanley Matthews (Right wing)

Who else could we have on the wing other than Stan Matthews?

When we think of the pioneers of our beautiful game, then the first player who should pop into our heads, should be Stanley Matthews (God rest his soul). Stan was the first real superstar of modern football, helping the game grow to the great heights it has reached today. He was the leader in every sense of the word, though judging by his mild and humble manner, you would never have guessed it. In many ways he was the first genuine professional.

A strict dietitian and a regimented fitness regime, who says footballers of today are much fitter than those of yesteryear? Stan had natural ability but was a firm believer that his talent needed to be worked upon and preserved. Abstaining from cigarettes and alcohol he broke the trends of his piers. Rising at around 5am every morning with a diet consisting of mainly fruit and vegetables, its no coincidence he became the longest serving footballer, playing on until an incredible 51.

The inaugural European Footballer of the year in 1956, Matthews was astonishingly never booked in his 35-year career. He was the first footballer to be knighted and the only ever to be knighted whilst playing. He was the first to capitalise from wing play and was a wizard with the ball at his feet. He was the first to wear soft leather boots and was the first real flair player. A familiar pattern is starting to emerge isn’t it?  It’s said he got sick before every game due to nerves but this never affected his performances, it just meant so much to him. Amazingly, Matthews only ever won one team trophy; the FA cup with Blackpool (pictured), and his International career was sadly interrupted by the war, when Matthews was in his prime.

The Finney-Matthews debate will go on, outliving you or I. If rumours are to be believed, Finney, dare I admit, was naturally more gifted than Stan, and could play in a variety of positions; but for myself, and most of my writers, Matthews gets the nod for innovation, dedication and for breaking barriers others couldn’t even conprehend.

Having had the pleasure of meeting the great man, you wouldn’t believe his humility and modesty.  He never believed the hype, shyed away from the spotlight and never thought too highly of himself. Here we can give him the recognition he so richly deserves.

Did you know, on his return to Stoke City from Blackpool, he added 27,000 people on the attendance that day, at the tender age of 46; pure madness I tell you! It brings a whole new meaning to term ‘appearance bonus’. Could there be anyone else on the wing other than Stanley Matthews: the absolute Sportsman? Not a notion, ‘Come On Stan!’ 

8. Paul Gascoigne (Centre midfield)

Paul 'Gazza' Gascoigne set Italia 90 alight playing for England

Paul ‘Gazza’ Gascoigne: Troubled genius, serialprankster, borderline madman, quintessential underachiever, and more besides. What People haveto remember was the unbelievable skill and talent this extraordinary man possessed. Again another natural talent, but possibly more skill than these shores have ever produced. England’s very own Geordie Diego Armando if you like, and there’s no finer tribute than that. No player from England has been blessed with the talent of Gasciogne.

Wasted talent, yes, tragedy maybe, but if Gazza was wasted then I dread to think what he might of achieved if he’d stayed sober. An infectious dribbler, creative midfielder, Gazza was an entertainer as much as he was a match winner. Apart from this he was also a born winner with a tremendous drive and an unparalleled enthusiasm for the game. Gazza was never happy unless he had a ball at his feetand this could explain the trouble he’s gone through since retiring. When he did play, boy did he excite, thrill and enthral! Take a look at our myspace to relive some of the Gazza Magic. How could we leave out a man of such precocious talent? Bringing England to within a whisker of both a World Cup and a Euro final, Gascoigne had a nation in the palm of his hand, on the edge of their seats, and on an emotional rolla-coaster.

Anyone who failed to be moved by his tears in Italy, is either a bare face liar, or an emotional cripple. The truth is, Gascoigne was worth the admission fee all by himself, and honestly, how often do you get to say that about any player? Who is English anyway?

9. Kenny Dalglish (Centre forward)

You see, since Shankly, at Liverpool, winning at all costs had become priority. The team was a “bastion of invincibility” first under Shanks and then under Bob Paisley. Fans had never seen anything quite like Kenny before and almost immediately he became an Anfieldicon. He had everything; two great feet, strong on the ball, vision and subtlety in abundance. He proved impossible to mark and even crowd and commentators alike failed to guess which way he would turn next; cameramen at Channel five have experienced a similar problem with himself, Nevin and Barnes!

To be considered great by such a knowledgeable crowd and a club as successful as Liverpool, then surely he must be. Watching Kenny was compelling, mesmerising and addictive, poetry in motion. If you’ve never had the pleasure, then get out the DVD’s, digout the VHS’s and sit back and watch him play. “And (boy) Could He Play!”

 10. Eric Cantona (Centre forward)

Eric 'The King' Cantona widely regarded as the Premiership's greatest ever player

Whatever Dalglish did for Liverpool, Eric Cantona did for Man Utd, and arguebly more. Cantona’s role in United’s revival in the early 90’s cannot be underestimated. Eric became the talisman in a rejuvenated United team, which would go onto dominant English football for the next ten years. Cantona was the fine red wine in Fergie’s ‘Coq au vin’ and galvanised a team lacking in flair and creativity.

Cantona’s move across the Pennines from Leeds to Man United for just £1 million, has to go down as the bargain of all time, and one of the biggest blunders by poor old Leeds Utd. What was Wilkinson thinking? Cantona made an instant impression and was the catalyst in United capturing their first league title in 26 long years. Having been in England for a little over 18 months, Cantona had two league titles to his belt, with two different clubs; not bad for a rebellious, uncontrollable Frenchman! He went on to win many more trophies including two league and cup doubles. But Cantona’s successes are only half the story.

Cantona was an artist and a poet. Like a conductor, he created beautiful music from his young impressionable teammates, theatre without a script, a spectrum of light out of sheer darkness. He pulled the strings, moving in waves of attacks, weaving his artistry with a swagger and an arrogance never seen before on English soils. For years he was the spark in a well-drilled and expansive Ferguson team and turned them from a very good team into a devastating one. It was a love affair for Eric, and was a match made in heaven. Never far from controversy, Cantona was as volatile and passionate as he was brilliant. Ferguson dealt with him as good as anyone could have, and Manchester United reaped the rewards.

Scorer of the spectacular, as well as the uncomplicated, this was detrimental to Cantona’s brilliance. His infamous ‘kung fu kick’ will be forever etched in the memory, but you have to say, he had a point, and at least he had the balls to follow his heart, even if it did mean a lengthy spell on the sidelines. This only adds to the fascination. The notorious bad boy, a resilient Eric would return stronger than ever and completely redeem himself. This was the measure of the man.

‘Eric The King’ was much more than a footballer - football merely provided Eric with an arena, his own stage. He was a philosopher, a rebel, a maverick, a genius and an icon of his generation, and many generations to come. He should be recognised for this.      

11. George Best (Left wing)

In his prime George Best was a genius in every sense of the word

No team would be complete without the inclusion of the legendary George Best. What can one say about George Best that has not been said already? We’ve all heard the stories of his drinking and infamous womanising, and more drinking. But what about the man? Behind the ambiguity; Best was a shy, charming and gentle soul. In other words, misunderstood. His elusiveness only adds to the intrigue and Best’s magic continues to shine. Best is the hero of all cult heroes and his legend will never die. On the football field he was genius, simple as. In life he was a waster, a tragedy before our very eyes. Watching footage of Best, it’s clear he’s a god-given talent, which will never be surpassed.

Was he the greatest player of all time? Probably. But we’ll never fully comprehend why. You see greatness can never really be explained, you’ve either got it or you haven’t, and Georgie Best certainly had it. At times he was breathtaking, as quick as lightening. He glided over quagmires, ghosting past defenders, rounding goalkeepers at a canter. In context, his feet were as quick as Christiano Ronaldo’s, his head sharp as Zidane, but compared to his more rigid competitors Best was in a league all of his own. Of course, it’s all a matter of opinion, but all who saw George play will tell you the same thing; they’d never seen anyone quite like George.

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‘GREATEST IRISH XI’ - Leave Us your Comments on who you think is the ‘Greatest Irish XI’ ever to grace the English league. The results will appear here next next month. Click here to get voting!

In his autobiography, ‘Walking on Water’, Brian Clough recalls his feelings on the day he was interviewed for the vacant England manager’s job:  “When I sit at home, busy doing nothing at all, and think back again to that day I bowled into Lancaster Gate as if I already owned the place, I remain unshakeable in my belief that the whole interviewing process was a charade.”  This recollection provides an indication of Clough’s brash self-confidence and an insight into how a conservative FA had already earmarked ‘their man’, Ron Greenwood, for the top job.  Despite a strong shortlist consisting of such luminaries as Bobby Robson and Lawrie McMenemy alongside the lesser known Allen Wade and Charles Hughes, many football aficionados agreed that Clough was the best qualified for the job.  Moreover, most football fans in the East Midlands still regard Brian Clough as the greatest manager of modern times – his achievements unmatched in the British game when you consider that he was only able to flex relatively meagre financial muscles. 

Manchester United supporters and a brown-nosed media might wax lyrical about Alex Ferguson being the best thing since sliced bread, but Clough himself summed it up best when he said, “For all his horses, knighthoods and championships, he hasn’t got two of what I’ve got.  And I don’t mean balls.” 

Clough’s European pedigree was exemplary: two European Cups in consecutive seasons in 1979 and 1980 were the ultimate prizes for a man who also won the Super Cup in 1980 and who featured in the European Cup semi-final with Derby County in 1973.  Would Alex have matched those feats with the same team and resources?  As well as this fine record in Europe, Clough also captured the league title with both Derby and Forest and won four League Cups while in charge at the City Ground.  During his tenure as manager, Forest went on a run of 42 games unbeaten, only seven games less than Arsenal’s 49-game run which unsurprisingly drew hyperbolic headlines such as ‘Invincibles’ and ‘The Best Ever…’ from a sensationalist London press.  Clough was universally seen as a hard but fair manager, who insisted on clean play from his players and who suffered no fools when communicating with the media. 

Clough was a man of principle and high standards and was never afraid to offer his advice to player or pressman.  When Trevor Francis (pictured above) found himself with the honour of receving an award from the great man, Clough told him in no uncertain terms to “Take your hands out of your pockets!”  On England goalkeeper David Seaman, Clough observed, “That Seaman is a handsome young man but he spends too much time looking in his mirror rather than at the ball.  You can’t keep goal with hair like that.”  He was famous for insisting on being called ‘Mr Clough’ and earned great respect from his peers for his ability to turn a game to his and his team’s advantage. 

While his outspoken and humorous comments enthralled many fans across the country, there were times when his acerbic wit and sharp tongue got him into trouble. One such situation he later lived to regret. After being knocked out of the European Cup semi-final by Juventus as Derby County manager, Clough accused The Old Lady of being ‘cheating bastards’ and questioned the Italian nation’s courage in the war.  His argument with with the Derby board led to Clough walking out on the club, a move which would have Derby’s fans demanding the board’s resignation.  After a brief stint managing Third Division Brighton and Hove Albion, Clough was famously sacked after just 44 days by Leeds United after upsetting several star players.  Most poignant was the break-down of his relationship with one-time right hand man and close friend, Peter Taylor. Taylor had been Clough’s assistant at Hartlepool, Brighton Derby, and Forest, and had retired in 1982, only to then come out of retirement to manage Derby County.  Taylor arranged the transfer of Forest’s John Robertson without Clough’s consent, leading to an irreconcilable breakdown in the pair’s relationship.  The two men had not put aside their grievances when Taylor died in 1990.  Clough regretted his stubbornness and continued to drink excessively. 

Some people believe that Brian Clough was the greatest England manager never to have got the job.  I myself would tend to agree with this.  First and foremost, Clough was a good northerner who spoke his mind and called a spade a spade.  What you saw was what you got.  He was also fairly conventional in his approach to handling his squad; he demanded that players were ultra-professional off the field as well as on it and insisted that his players upheld on a clean image and were well-presented with neat haircuts and smart suits.  He also insisted on shirts being tucked inside their shorts and always played with their socks rolled up.  This cleancut appearance was also reflected in his teams’ behaviour on the pitch as he was adamant that his players should behave honourably and never argue with the referee.  His tactics and methods demonstrated a desire to play the game in the right way by keeping the ball on the ground and not resorting to Route One football which was employed by so many other teams in England at the time.  He was an inventive coach and used left wingers like John Robertson at Forest and Alan Hinton at Derby to particularly good effect.  Like Alf Ramsay at Ipswich, Clough moulded together a group of lesser-known players and turned them into a really effective crushing machine, where the onus was on collective responsibility and the team playing for each other rather than relying on Fancy Dans who were out for themselves.  Although Clough himself signed Teddy Sheringham, it is rumoured that Clough didn’t really care for him and thought he was another flash and cocky Londoner.  This feeling is perhaps typified in the way that Clough constantly referred to him as ‘Edward’.

When Clough speaks about the interviewing process being a charade it is because the FA were never in a million years going to appoint a man of Clough’s outpoken nature.  In Walking on Water he says: “They (the interviewing panel) could have saved us all a lot of time and bother because Greenwood seemed merely to be rubber-stamped.  They would have gone home and boasted to their golf-club cronies that they had appointed the nice Ron Greenwood, a first class diplomat as well as a fine coach, and they had given the bum’s rush to that objectionable braggart from Nottingham Forest.”   Whatever the reasons the power-men had when deciding not to make Clough manager, it surely was to England’s loss. 

Looking back on his success, his record stands alongside any of the top managers in the English game.  Clough himself says, “Who thought Derby County could be turned into League champions; that any manager could bounce back from getting the bullet after 44 days with a great club and go on to prove himself among the best managers of all time; that what was done at Derby could be repeated at Forest; that after winning one European Cup, we could retain it; that a brash, self-opinionated young footballer, cut down by injury in his prime, would go on to achieve more impressive fame as a brash, highly successful manager?”  To paraphrase a famous Clough quote, he may not have been the best manager in the business, but he certainly was the top one.

As a Liverpool fan there are two words that make my neck hairs stand straight up. The first one is “Istanbul” (no explanation is needed). The other word is “2001″.

In my last post I wrote about the manager situation at Anfield. And with current developments, it could be tempting to write another piece on that subject. (I can not believe the amount of Liverpool fans who are rooting for Mourinho to take over. Have they forgot what that man said about our football club only a few years a go? The contempt he treated Liverpool fans with at the 2005 Leauge cup final? Mourinho was massively booed at the 2005 CL semi final, and in the following matches we faced Chelsea. And now these people want him as our manager? What next? Salman Rushdie as president of Iran?)

But enough about current plights, and ramblings about who shall and shall not be manager at Anfield come August 2008.

Let us instead go down Memory Lane - a pleasant walk for any Liverpool fan.

No, I am not going to write about St. Etienne, the glory of Rome in 84, or the above mentioned Istanbul.

Let us talk about 2000/2001.

My favourite year!

As a football fan my year goes from August to July, not from January to December. At the start of the year (in august 2000 in other words), I enrolled at Liverpool John Moores University - where I was supposed to study journalism for three years. (Instead I ended up spending the vast majority of those three years in the pub - a lot of the time in company with this site’s editor!)

The reason John Moores University was my preferred top choice at Uni was not the incredible stature that particular University has as a journalism school, it had of course all to do with my love or Liverpool Football Club

As I am not born and bred on Merseyside (yes, I’m one of those pesky out of towners), this was my chance to follow the Red Men on a regular basis - not for one whole season, but for three.

Let us make a jump in space and time again. This time to the period preceding my enrolment at John Moores. Back to  the time I was still slaving at school here back home in Norway, passing time chasing after pretty blonde little things in skirts, watching footie on the telly, and reading everything I could get my hands on when it came to English football. Fanzines, match day programmes and books. A lot of books. (No wonder I was the teacher’s pet in my English class, as a teenager I had probably read more English than she has in her entire life)

My favourite footie book is called “My Favourite Year”. Published by the When Saturday Comes magazines, and edited by Nick Hornby. It is a collection of 13 tales by 13 famous football fans and writers, where they all describe their favourite season.

Inspired by that, I will now go trough the highlights of my favourite year. A year that saw me jump up and down with John Aldridge, share an elevator ride with Ron Atkinson, stamp on Frank Stapleton’s coat and last but certainly not least, saw me witness Liverpool win three cup finals.

The first memorable match of the 2000-2001 season was the Merseyside derby at Anfield. This early in the season, I still had not sorted out my press accreditation.

Yes, I freelanced my self trough my favourite year. I paid for my football by writing about the football I saw. Genious! On one occasion I covered a Walsall - Barnet FA Cup game at the Bescott stadium, when I suddenly noticed I had been standing the entire first half with muddy shoes on the coat hung over the seat in front of me. That coat belonged to Frank Stapleton! Finally, pay back time for that 1985 FA Cup semi final loss against the Mancs!

The only way I got hold of a ticket for that derby game was by buying of a tout. Something I hate doing, and something I have only done once ever since.

To my nightmare, someone was sitting in my seat when I finally entered Anfield five minutes after kick off.

A bluenose!

 I feared that I had bought a fake ticket. But after wandering aimlessly around the Annie Road End for the first few minutes, I simply hoped for the best and asked a steward for help. Thank God, that bluenose was sitting in the wrong seat. My ticket was the real deal after all.

The game can be summed up in two words: “Nick” and “Barmby”.

The winger had just joined from the dark side. And I will never ever forget that wall of sound when he, of all people, headed home for Liverpool’s first goal.

Kevin Campbell equalised, but Liverpool were easy winners against a piss poor Everton side in the end.

Another memory from that game is a fresh faced Steven Gerrard, at right back, tackling left winger Idan Tal so hard that the Israeli literally flew of the pitch and landed in the stands!

I can still remember standing among the Liverpool fans on the Sheil Road Circular bus going back in to town after the game, singing “He’s red, he’s white, We bought him from the shite. Nick Barmby, Nick Barmby…”

Outside it was pissing down (that autumn had the most rain recorded in history), inside it was all sunshine.

On a more curious note from that autumn, I remember swapping scarves with a drunk Czech, who looked and smelled like he had drunk all the Cains in Liverpool, in the Albert before the game against Slovan Liberec (A more bizarre experience was probably watching Bernard Diomede playing in that same game. My God, how did that impostor of a professional footballer ever win the World Cup!)

But it was in the spring that the 2000-2001 season really picked up the pace.

Liverpool were making great strides under Gerard Houllier, but even before Christmas - despite a Danny Murphy winner at Old Trafford - it was evident that we were never ever going to catch Man United and Arsenal in the league. In fact, keeping Leeds United and Ipswich at bay was going to be more than difficult (Leeds! Ipswich!!)

However, we where doing brilliantly in all three cup competitions. Chelsea (with a late goal from the returning Robbie Fowler), Stoke (8-0, Tim!), Fulham (then outside the Premier League) and a mauling of Crystal Palace at Anfield put us in the final of the League Cup. Rotherham, Leeds (who back then was rather good) and Joe Royle’s Man City were put to the sword in the FA Cup.

By February The Kop had a new ditty to sing. “Tell me ma, me ma, to put the champagne on ice. We’re going to Cardiff twice”

The first trip with Barnes’ coaches from Lime Street to the Welsh capital was made in February, as Sander Westerveld’s heroics gave us the trophy and a memorable and happy coach ride back home (I can remember a snow ball fight at a service station in the Midlands somewhere. The only time I have ever seen snow in England).

But The Millennium Stadium was not the only destination we had in sight. Looming on the horizon was also the Westfalen stadion in Dortmund. After being in the doldrums when it came to European football after the UEFA ban, Liverpool fans where finally getting a regular fix of our preferred drug: European glory.

Today the UEFA cup is viewed as nothing more than a distraction by most clubs. But in 2000-2001 it was the source of rebirth and new hopes for Liverpool FC. And also, have there ever been a UEFA cup with such quality as in 2000-2001?

We knocked Fabio Capello’s Roma out in February, thanks to a fantastic Michael Owen in the Stadio Olympico, and thanks to a fantastic Kop who scared the beejeesus out of a Spanish ref at Anfield.

Remember this was at a time when Serie A, quite rightly, was regarded as the by far best league in the world. And later that year Roma won the league title.

In the next round we beat a very good FC Porto side comfortably - two years before the same Porto side won the UEFA Cup, three years before the same FC Porto side won the Champions Leauge.

In the semi FC Barcelona awaited.

Roma, Porto, Barca… Arguably we defeated tougher opposition our way to the 2001 UEFA cup triumph, than when we won the Champions League in 2005.

The day after Liverpool had beaten Wycombe at Villa Park to qualify for the FA Cup final, I travelled up to Anfield and queued for seven - yes 7 - hours to get my hands on a ticket for the semi final against Barca at Anfield. Finally reaching that ticket office window was like sex! (And very much like the first time I had sex, I went straight home and slept for ten hours afterwards! I was knackered)

A funny story: I was in that line with my mates Declan and Dermott. When they phoned me up they day before, to arrange where and when we should meet up, my Spanish flat mate Eduardo answered. His grasp of the English language was pretty much at the same level as the current England manager has now. When Declan asked “Is that you Eric?”, Eduardo answered “I don’t know!”

Those seven hours queuing around Anfield on a cold Monday morning was well worth it tough.

Gary McAllister netted from the spot (that penalty would have hit me full on in the face had it not been for the Anfield Road End net).

Oh joy! Oh jubilation!

After 16 Liverpool had finally a European final to play.

But before that, there were matters to address in the league. Yes, Man United and Arsenal were light years ahead in the league.

But there was still a lucrative Champions League spot to play for. George Burley’s Ipswich had, as most people expected, ran out of steam. Leeds was the main challenger (only three English teams qualified back then).

It was a major blow when goals from Rio Ferdinand and Lee Bowyer gave the Yorkshire outfit a undeserved win at Anfield on Good Friday.

On Easter Monday Liverpool quite simply had to win. If not, that first ever Champions League entrance was at least another year away.

The oposition? Everton at Goodison.

In my 70-80 or so games watching Liverpool live, I have been lucky to experience many memorable moments, and I have seen many more from in front of a television set. But of all my Liverpool experiences, my favourite ever memory is the 3-2 win at Goodison in April 2001. Yes, it even beats Istanbul!

It was a thrilling game. Heskey scored. “In for a week, out for a month, Duncan is a tampon” Ferguson equalised. Babbel scored. Then Biscan was sent off by the truly awful Jeff Winter. Then Everton got the mother of all soft penalties (Yes mister Moyes, Everton got a soft penalty in a derby match). That hippo David Unsworth levelled.

Oh no!

We could forget it now.

Another year in the UEFA Cup awaited. Slovan Liberec and Dundee United rather than Real Madrid and Bayern Munich.

But then. Three minutes into injury time Liverpool won a free kick 44 yards out. Gary McAllister floated the ball into the box. Sami Hyypia rose like some 14 year old school boy’s cock in a strip bar. The flying Fin met the ball perfectly. It was going in! Yes!

…but no. Everton’s otherwise ordinary goalkeeper Paul Gerrard delivered a stunning save. All the Liverpool fans could not believe it!

We were all still holding our heads in disbelief when late substitute Gregory Vignal (remember him?) won another free kick in almost the exact same position.

Everybody expected another long ball into the box from McAllister. But Gary Macca had other ideas. Instead he placed the ball perfectly in the diving Gerrard’s bottom corner.

To this day I will never ever forget the sounds around me, as I sat here in the Goodison Park press box.

First total and stunned silence. Then an almighty roar from the travelling Kop on the other side of the pitch. Then the fump-fump-fump sound as 30.000 Everton fans simultaneously rose from their seats and headed for the exits. Then the sound of my own voice going “Aaaaaaargh” and out drowning the fella in front of me who was also jumping up and down letting out primal screams. That fella was John Aldridge, commentating on the game for the local radio.

If football brings me nothing but disappointment and hurt in the next 50 years, I would gladly take it and suffer it just to experience just two second of that feeling I had as Gary McAllister curled that ball into the Everton net on Easter Monday 2001.

Of course there was more curling and more scoring from McAllister in the following weeks.

When we entered the last week of the 2000-2001 season, Liverpool had three cup finals in eight days.

Arsenal in the FA Cup on Saturday the 12th, Alaves in the UEFA Cup on Wednesday the 16th and Charlton in the league on Sunday the 20th. A win at The Valley, and qualification for the Champions League was dead certain.

I can still remember the fantastic vision of the Millennium stadium bathed in glorious sunshine, as I made my way up the gantry for the 2001 FA Cup final. Due to a shortage of tickets in the writer’s press box, my paper at the time had managed to get me a press pass alongside the TV and radio commentators. The view was spectacular!

As I watched Arsenal totally outplay Liverpool and take the lead 1-0, I was sat squeezed in between the commentators of Norwegian channel TV2 and David Ginola commentating for some French channel.

Before I went down to Cardiff, my Arsenal supporting friends (I have got a few) reminded me that this was the fourth time Liverpool and Arsenal met in a cup final. In 1950 Arsenal had won thanks to goals from Lewis. In 1971 they had won thanks to goals from Graham and George, and in 1987 they had won thanks to goals from Nicholas. “And now, we have Henry” they said.

“But yes, we have Owen” I answered.

I could also have pointed out that when Liverpool meet Arsenal in FA cup finals, the team that wears gold and blue win.

Well, you all know what happened. Michael Owen, dressed in gold and blue, turned the game on its head. (Try to write a play about that, Mr. Hornby!)

One down, two to go.

I was not able to get a ticket for the UEFA final in Dortmund (Maybe Luke can write about that one?)

So the final was watched in the student’s union in the Haigh building on Mount Pleasant in Liverpool. Everything went fine. Babbel scored, Gerrard scored. We were cruising.

But then the ale pressed on. I had to go to the toilet. Alonso (no, not Xabi) pulled one back while I was out taking a leak. Gary Macca, in the form of his life, restored the two goal advantage.

Just after the restart I went to the toilet again. When I came back Moerno had scored - not once, but twice! Fuck!

Fowler netted, and with another couple of bottles of Becks (£1,45 a piece, if I remember correctly) necked, I decided to sneak out for another quick leak (I know, I know).

When I came back, Yordi Cruyff, of all people, had made it 4-4!

Extra time came. I was drunk now, all I can remember is standing with my legs crossed, desperately trying not to think about my undersized blather. Oh, and some unfortunate chap called Geli slicing a Gary Macca free kick into his own net.

Two down, one to go.

Next up Charlton. Once again, I had not been able to get a ticket. I can remember watching the game in the pub. I can remember Liverpool having a highly uncomfortable first half, and then Fowler scored with an over head kick, and we cruised to 4-0 and Champions Leauge qualification.

Three down, mission completed.

A couple of days later 300.000 people (Everton, the people’s club my ass!) turned up in the streets of Liverpool to watch an open top bus parade that had, as one banner proclaimed, more cups than a bra factory.

In the end it was the right decision to let Gerard Houllier go. At the end Liverpool was going backwards under him. But we should not forget that after many barren years, he gave us belief, pride and trophies. Liverpool would never have won in Istanbul, had it not been for the big game experience Gerrard, Carragher et al built up under Houllier.

I always felt that Gerrard Houllier came in, and still does, for unwarranted criticism. Yes, he had his faults, and it was right to let him go in the end, but he certainly gave us some glorious moments - while almost ending up paying with his life, least we forget.

But for me, he first and foremost gave me my favourite year!

What about you? Do you have a favourite year, or any favourite football experiences?

There’s a wonderful moment in the 1993 FA Cup semi-final between the two Sheffield clubs at Wembley, which kind of makes you a little bit nostalgic for times past. From inside their own half, Wednesday, who eventually won 2-1, put together a superb, flowing movement, all of it along the floor, completely befuddling United (who, in fairness, probably had John Pemberton playing for them, so it’s perhaps not all their fault.) John Harkes to John Sheridan, Sheridan to Chris Waddle, Waddle to the overlapping Nigel Worthington, who centres for David Hirst…. who misses from three yards.

It’s a tremendous experience watching the footage 14 years on, and not just so we can reminisce in disbelief that Sir Alex Ferguson wouldn’t have signed Eric Cantona and changed the course of English football history if Hirst, his preferred choice, had been available. It’s worth remembering that the Sheffield Wednesday of a decade-and-a-half ago were a genuinely excellent side, capable of having a say in who won the league title. Two cup finals that season (that they didn’t win any silverware was thanks to some ruthless finishing by Ian Wright and a dreadful goalkeeping clanger from Chris Woods) to go with a third-placed finish in 1991-92, and some outstanding players: Waddle, Sheridan, Roland Nilsson, Carlton Palmer (OK, not Carlton Palmer.) While the pre-Abramovich Chelsea, replete with Robert Fleck, Eddie Newton and David Hopkins were languishing in mid-table, Wednesday were one of the top teams in the Premier League.

Now, fast forward to 2007. Wednesday sit just one place and one point clear of the Championship relegation zone, having lost nine of their first 13 league matches. A measure of how far they’ve fallen is that nobody was surprised when they were thumped 3-0 at home by Everton in the Carling Cup at the end of September - a result that would have been nigh on unthinkable a decade ago. Owls fans, renowned for their excellent support and gloomy sense of humour (maybe the best banner I’ve ever seen at a Test match at Headingley proclaimed “Richie Benaud is a Wednesdayite”) must be somewhat fed up, and then some. What went wrong? How did a once proud club, a fixture in the top division, stoop so low? And why are their city rivals United now much better than them?
<Wednesday probably won’t go down, but it’s a distressing time for supporters, particularly after last season ended so well. After Brian Laws replaced Paul Sturrock, a decent bloke who nonetheless did little to discourage the notion that all Scottish managers exist on chips, white pudding and Tennent’s Extra, the club went on an excellent end-of-season run, winning something like seven of their last nine games to finish just four points shy of a play-off spot. Optimism abounded. Now they’re officially rubbish; one of the most workmanlike sides in a league full of them. All right, they’ve got Franny Jeffers (in a new departure for him, he’s decided to move to a new club before the season starts, and not during the transfer window, when panicked clubs destined for the drop decide a) they’re desperate b) he’s available and c) they’re desperate.) But the rest of them - even those toothless old crones whose purchases are justified by managers insisting they‘ve got ‘Premiership experience’ (Deon Burton, Marcus Tudgay and Graham Kavanagh in this case) - are, much like the war on Iraq, impossible to justify, whichever way you look at it.

It seems Laws, who had some success as manager of a right motley crew at Scunthorpe, has made the wrong call. Someone should tell him that team spirit can’t win you promotion (quite how Derby managed to pip a West Brom team including Kamara, Koumas, Gera, Koren and Davies last season remains a mystery). Good players, however, like Steve Maclean and Chris Brunt, two who Laws allowed to leave over the summer, can. It’s a peculiarly British phenomenon, seemingly; that is, pinning your hopes on grit and determination, spirit and resolve, and a healthy dollop of kicking people up the arse, as a means of achieving success. I mean, how else to explain the career of Lee Dixon? Of course, 11 simply amazing footballers refusing to do anything as tawdry as tackling, marking or tracking back would be unable to beat anyone (apart from Derby, possibly) but guys, it’s simple: buy good players. Those with skill, finesse, technique and poise are far more beneficial to a team’s cause than those without, which is why Manchester United win the league all the time and Wigan don’t.

Laws, Jeffers and Frankie Simek (Missouri’s finest) aside, has blundered. Prepare for a long hard season, Wednesdayites. And that includes you, Benaud.

It’s now 15 years since Leeds won the Championship. Much has happened since 1992 - just ask John Major. Fashions come and go, tastes change (look at Shakespeare’s Sister: improbably, they spent eight weeks at No 1 in the early part of that year) and Leeds United continue to get worse.

The Peacocks are now beyond shambolic: an appalling joke of a football club, bile and rancour spewing forth at every turn, with Ken Bates and Dennis Wise presiding over team affairs like an even less funny version of Laurel and Hardy. Champions League to League One in six seasons - that’s some going, chaps. And with adult tickets costing up to £25 next term, the club unable to bring in any players until a transfer embargo is lifted, and the threat of insolvency still very real, what possible explanation is there for going to Elland Back next year? However, fear not, Whites fans: here are five ways for you to derive at least a modicum of pleasure from the forthcoming campaign.

1. Stay away.
When Richard Nixon spoke of ‘The Silent Majority’, it was doubtful he was referring to Leeds fans, but Whites supporters could learn something from the American anti-counterculturalists who got Tricky Dicky re-elected in 1972. Noisy protests are all very well, but far more effective are those conducted in silent. The list of Leeds’ recent administrators - Ridsdale, Venables, Reid, Krasner, Gray, McKenzie, Blackwell, Bates, Wise - reads like a Who’s Who of utter dreck, so what better way to protest against the chronic mismanagement by these clowns than by completely withdrawing your custom? Just imagine the symbolism if only 4,000 turned up to watch the home fixture against Bristol City. OK, so the loss of revenue from gate receipts would almost certainly send the club to the wall, and it’d be all your fault, but at least you can claim you weren’t held to ransom. Small victories, I suppose.

2. Form your own club.
When Malcolm Glazer bought Manchester United in 2005, ‘real’ United fans  - you know, the ones that talk in loud voices in pubs about how none of these bastards watching on telly were there at Plymouth away when we were shit - decided to renounce their support of football’s biggest behemoth and form their own club, which theoretically combined the best aspects of Manchester United (whatever they were) without the dreadful excesses of rampant commercialism. Leeds fans should applaud their morality, and try something similar in west Yorkshire. Never mind that United’s attendances increased significantly over the past two years, and that fans secretly love the funny-looking one for giving them the funds to compete in the transfer market. It’s all about the ethics, you know.

3. Go down the road to Headingley.
Paradoxical it may be, but while the football club are Yorkshire’s biggest losers, Leeds’ other Big Two are experiencing something of a renaissance. Goughy seems to have waved his magic wand at Yorkshire CCC and appeased their notoriously crabby members (even Boycs appears almost satisfied), thanks to improved displays which see them in sight of only their second County Championship title since 1968. And the enviable talents of Rob Burrow, Kevin Sinfield and Danny McGuire have made the Rhinos one of the most attractive rugby league teams to watch on the planet. With 17,000 boisterous Yorkshiremen packed into Super League’s most atmospheric ground, tries galore, and 18-stone knuckleheads knocking seven bells into each other, it’s the perfect way to spend a Friday evening. And you can drink Tetley’s in your seat, too.

4. Watch ‘Leeds United: Champions 1991-92’ on video again and again.
So it’s indulgent, admittedly, but why shouldn’t Leeds fans have a little joy in our lives? And with bids starting at just £3.99 on eBay, you too can re-live the early 90s glory days under Howard Wilkinson for less the price of a sausage roll and a lukewarm Bovril. Unbeaten at home all season, and seeing off the challenge of Manchester United with consummate ease (even if they did get beaten 2-0 by Oldham), this is the stuff to watch long into the night. Marvel at Wee Gordy’s ceaseless running and Gary Mac’s midfield guile! Rejoice at Lee Chapman’s trademark that’s-one-we-worked-on-on-the-training-ground near-post flick-ons! Shudder to recall that professional carthorses Mel Sterland and Chris Whyte actually won league championship medals! (DVD bonus footage includes Tony Dorigo on the time he cheekily stole 10 yards at a throw-in, and Rod Wallace reminiscing about the moment they all fell about when the stadium announcer got him confused with twin brother Ray after scoring against Wimbledon.) Great days.

5. Get all excited about the new season and go down to Elland Road with more zeal than ever.
OK, so it’s counterintuitive, and I argued earlier that watching Leeds was akin to watching The Friday Night Project sober, but let’s face it: Leeds will win League One next season. At a canter. The third tier of English football is packed full of teams so hopeless it’s almost impossible not to succeed. Nottingham Forest, the only other club capable of giving the Whites a run for their money, are officially useless, and the rest can do no more than kick bollock and brain and pray for three points at the end of it all. If Leeds can manage to keep hold of Douglas, Cresswell, Lewis and Derry, it’ll be a cake walk. And £25 might be a bit steep, but you’ll see lots of goals, lots of action, and some spectacularly inept defending (and not just from Leeds, either). Not losing every week might do wonders for the general mood at Elland Road. Even a serial incompetent like Dennis Wise couldn’t mess this one up. Could he?

After the huge response we received on myspace, we’ve decided to display the results of our recent poll ‘Greatest English League XI’ on our homepage, as well as here on Golden Years. Bear-in-mind these results reflect, not only the opinions of those who voted, but our EFP panel of writers and researchers also. Decisions were based on; skill and finesse over Brut strength, vision over vigour, grace over greed, personal triumphs over trophies, and courage over mere competence. 

Explained 

When choosing the best team of all time, it’s important we identify the premise with which we picked the players and what constitutes a truly great player. I’m sure our team raised more than a few eyebrows, causing much ambivalence (that is always the intention with these things). What about Finney? Charlton? Ball? I hear you ask. Well the answer is simple; we could only pick 11 players on the day, and some, for one reason or another were left out one in favour of another. Our final decision took into consideration the opinions of polls aired prodominately on myspace, the EFP Writers too, and also anyone who has come in contact with us over the past couple of months! 

A panel of judges sat down and sorted through (an extremely long) shortlist, and we argued it out until the early hours of the morning. We decided that players were not included on merit alone, trophies won, or highest earnings. But instead, we considered skill, innovation, personal triumphs and strength of character. We went for the glorious and the sublime over those who were merely exceptional players.

There’s been much debate down the years on how you go about comparing modern players against their forefathers and who is greater than whom? It’s quite simple really: it’s he who stands out most from his compatriots. Did they name a cup final after Matthews because he was the second best player? Or would a club as illustrious as Liverpool, habitually sing about a player (Dalglish) who was merely world-class? And Georgie Best; has there ever been more accolades for a man whose career effectively came to an end at the age of 30?

Great players are like great musicians. No matter how long ago their songs were written, they still retain their brilliance, progressively getting better with time. They ease the pain, as we are forced to endure the latest manufactured cover band, which is popular music today. Perennial trends like ‘Shakespeare’s Sister’, ‘2 unlimited’, ‘Razorlight’ and ‘Kaiser Chiefs’ will inevitably fade and vanish, as we spend our entire adulthood denying we ever owned their albums (I’ll make this clear, Iv never even bought a single of any of the above!). Trends come and go, but quality shines perpetually through eternity, untouched by the burden of time. 

Some things remain timeless like Shakespeare & Hendrix, Whitman & Melville, Morecambe & Wise, Beehan, Dylan & Joyce. And of course, everyone loves a bad boy! Fallen stars make legends - it’s as simple as that. Tragedy conjures up huge intrigue and those great underachievers always generate massive popularity. Take Garrincha, Lennon, Maradona, Ali and Jimmy Dean.  Oh, and you’ll notice that none of the players we’ve selected have made great strides in management (Explaining our exclusion of Keane who may do just do that). Strange that. Well let’s face it, Cloughie aside, ’Great Players’ make shite managers.  

Tim Killeen - The Editor

Click Here for reasons behind our selection.